The English Encounter
by wynnebat
Summary: Just because his other self is happily gay-married to a guy named Harry Potter doesn't mean Dean Winchester has to believe it. It's for the tax benefits. Obviously. (Takes place during and after S06E15: The French Mistake.) SLASH.


Title: The English Encounter (OR, In which not-Dean has a trailer, a house, and a husband.)

Summary: Just because his rich other self is happily gay-married to a guy named Harry Potter doesn't mean Dean Winchester has to believe it. It's for the tax benefits. Obviously. (Takes place during and after S06E15: The French Mistake.)

Notes: This story is a part of my quest to write for 100 fandoms in the _5, 10, 20, 50, 70, 100 Fandoms Challenge_ on the HPFC forums. (I've written 2 so far, lol.)

You should know that this story includes slash of the homosexy variety, cursing of the Dean Winchester variety, and violence of the canon-typical variety. Also, I don't consider this RPF since it takes place in an episode of a totally fictional TV series, but this story does have real people's names in it, if that freaks you out. Additionally, this story has a distinct lack of seriousness. You have been warned.

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DAY ONE

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Dean Winchester was not going to freak out.

Getting literally thrown into an alternate dimension wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened to him – that would be being some sort of health nut corporate executive– but it did reach the top ten. He was in a universe where glass was rubber, Sam was polish, and Castiel, angel of the lord and all around unhelpful, unfriendly dude, knew more about technology than he and Sam did. And he grinned, too. Someone should prevent Castiel – or Misha, or whatever – from grinning. There was something so wrong about that. It rubbed him the wrong way, seeing Cas — Misha Collins, whatever — acting so human. Like someone pushed away everything that made Cas himself. Unnervingly like the 2014 that never came to be, the first time he saw Cas relaxed and joking and not being his usual dry self.

Even his trailer, which reputedly belonged to some version of himself, looked straight out of a magazine. Everything was clean lines and untouched things, like he spent a maximum of an hour a day in the place.

Though, dude, he had a _helicopter_. By the remote on the table under it, the thing could actually fly, too.

"Vrooom," he said, picking it up.

Sam gave him a look. The look that said, "Yeah, continue being childish, I'll just get back to doing the actual work."

"It's mine. Not-me will just have to deal with me handling his shit when he gets back. Out. Wherever he is," Dean told him, and went back to playing with the remote. A few moments later, he realized the batteries were dead, and looked like they had been dead for a while. Jensen Ackles did not appreciate his toys.

"Right," Sam said, shaking his head. "You do that. I'll just look up this guy, get some information on him. Google should have something on him. Jensen Ackles. Let's see who this guy is," Sam said. Dean hummed and continued checking out the not-his junk. This guy wasn't a hunter (despite playing one on TV), but apparently being a TV star did more for your bank account than hunting did. A three hundred aquarium with fish from New Zealand, six high school sports trophies, a top of the line DVD player that played something called a "Blue Ray" and an electric fireplace. In a trailer. This guy's taste was off the charts pretentious.

"So lay it on me. Who am I?" he asked, dropping down on one of the black leather couches. A matching leg rest automatically rose up. Dean grinned, pointing at it. "Damn, look at this." Whatever his not-self's taste was, he certainly had great taste in couches. Maybe they could smuggle this into their world somehow, and set it up at Bobby's. It certainly beat any couch back there.

Sam barely glanced up from the computer. He seemed to be making a choking noise in the back of his throat. He definitely looked nothing like the Blue Steel pose in the magazine. Though Dean would still totally rib him for it more later.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dude, you okay?" If Sam was researching Dean's not-self, then… "Don't tell me. I did porn when I was starting out. Wait, yes, tell me who I've banged."

Because if this dude had banged that blonde chick with the spider tattoo, on camera, then his not-self could be as pretentious as he wanted. Those were some serious bragging rights.

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. His expression was somewhere between panicked and laughing. "No, not that. Though there are plenty of pictures of you shirtless. And one, well."

Sam's voice hadn't been this squeaky since puberty. Dean was seriously considering getting off the couch from heaven (maybe not heaven – he suspected they were all a bunch of sadists up there too – so just from somewhere ridiculously expensive) to take a look.

"You're from Texas. You were on a soap opera—"

"What?" Just when he was starting to get a good opinion of his not-self, too.

"—and your anniversary is coming up. Congratulations. You're married. To your husband of three years."

Dean snorted. Husband. That was rich. "Pull the other one, Sammy."

Sam scrolled down and clicked another few links. "I'm not joking. Look at this." He gestured to the screen.

Dean reluctantly got off the couch. The computer screen had a tab open of him in something called "Days of Our Lives" and a tab of his Wikipedia page, where he was listed as "Married to Harry Potter".

"Are there pictures of… that…? It could be some asshole messing with the website."

Sam clicked on the link. "Harry Potter," he read, "Born June 31st 1980, is a Canadian hockey player for the British Columbian team Titanium." He started skimming down Harry Potter's profile. "Graduated from Hogwarts School in Scotland, came to Canada ten years ago, dual citizenship. Married Jensen Ackles three years ago. You're still together. Look, it even has your wedding photo."

Because seeing it there wasn't enough, Sam clicked to enlarge it. There was not-him and some guy with black hair and a white suit with a smiling minister behind them. Not-him was sliding a wedding ring onto the Harry Potter guy's finger, and looking at him so softly that Dean wanted to puke.

It wasn't a hoax.

Dean collapsed onto the couch.

"Anything you want to tell me, man?" Sam asked. "Not going to judge or anything."

"Fuck off."

Shit. What do you do when you find out some alternate version of yourself went homo? It wasn't like he had anything against being gay. Or marrying men. Free will, free love, all that crap. (Lesbian porn, too.) That just wasn't him.

Right. Okay.

"We're getting out of this universe, Sammy," Dean said, in a no-nonsense sort of tone. "I don't like this universe."

"Yeah, no argument here."

And Sam was still staring at him, like he was waiting for Dean to begin singing a number from Grease.

Fine. Dean Winchester was going to freak out. Quietly, and in a very straight, masculine sort of way. And then he'd put it down as just one other thing that was out of whack in this universe, and completely forget about it.

.

Except, even after they'd left the trailer and gotten a ride to a place to crash, the whole thing was still bothering him. Because Jensen Ackles was him. The dude looked like him, talked like him, walked like him. Was him in another life. And he was gay. Like, super homo for this Harry Potter man.

Even if a lot of things were different, they had too much in common for this to make any sense. Sure, Jensen Ackles didn't drive a classic car, and instead paid someone to drive him in a black SUV that couldn't be more than a year old (the poor, sad thing). But there were some things that didn't change just because he was brought up normal.

Did that mean he was half gay? What do you call someone whose alternate universe self was gay?

Fuck. Someone was going to die. Starting with Raphael, maybe with Balthazar thrown in. Because this was an awful lot of mind scarring just to keep a key away from Raphael. A key that looked like it led to someone's mail locker.

Dean slammed the SUV's door extra hard, and it still closed softly. Some kind of new car trick that didn't give its passengers the satisfaction of venting their anger.

He drummed his fingers on his knee as Sammy told the driver where to go. He'd decided not to think about it, sure, but he couldn't help adding, "It's for tax benefits, Sammy. It's got to be." Not-him wasn't _actually_ gay.

"Right. You know. I have no problem—"

Oh fuck, that sounded like the beginning of the 'it's okay to be gay' speech. "_Tax benefits_," Dean quickly cut him off.

"—with—"

"_Tax benefits_."

"Okay. Fine. Tax benefits. Because you've really fallen on hard times."

Yeah, his three hundred thousand gallon aquarium sure looked poor. Stupid know-it-all Sam.

"I don't know how to explain it," Dean told him.

Sam wisely said nothing. Then, because he was Sam, he added, "You don't have to explain it."

"You don't have to explain your face."

That shut Sam up, even if he was rolling his eyes at him. They sat back in silence. Actually, Sam sat back in silence. Dean sat back onto something hard that poked into his side. Taking it out, he noticed it was a cell phone that someone had left behind. It was black, shiny, and had none of the wear and tear of his own cell phone.

"Hey, Chris, this yours?" he asked, holding it up.

"Cliff. It's Cliff," the driver said tiredly. Dean got a feeling they'd done this a few times before, not-Dean and not-Chris. "And it's yours."

Dean glanced back at it and ran his fingers along the sides. The top part of the phone had a button that took him to a lock screen, but… "Sam this thing doesn't have any buttons."

Sam frowned and took a look. "I think it's touch-activated."

Dean swiped his finger along the screen. "Woa. We need one of these things."

"Guys, if you're on something, you know I need to tell someone about it. Your spouses, at least," Cliff said from the driver's seat.

"Chris, what's my password?" Dean asked instead. Because he was not going into Cliff's spouses comment.

"Your anniversary. Harry set it a few weeks ago."

Dean gave the phone over to Sam. "Well, use your freaky memory powers." He gestured to the screen.

"…Jensen," Sam said, "I don't actually have a photographic memory."

"May 2nd, 2008," Cliff helpfully supplied.

Of all the alerts that immediately popped up, what worried him the most was the one about his so-called husband. "Shit. I was supposed to pick, ah—" he glanced at the Cliff "—Harry up at the airport. Two hours ago."

"Don't worry about it. Gwen had the same flight. He's spending the night at hers."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. There it was, proof that he and Harry were definitely not in this marriage thing because of love. Even if his background image was of him and Harry making googly eyes at each other at someone's picnic party.

He hated everything about the photo, including the casual domesticity it implied. Jensen and Harry were sitting on a wooden porch, laughing, with people in the background. They had the kind of life Dean had tried so hard to have with Lisa, except with three years under the belt, they were succeeding far better than he and Lisa ever had. And that had nothing to do with gayness, or the fact that it looked like he and Harry didn't see too much of each other. It had to do with him not being a hunter in this messed up world.

And he knew hunting screwed him up, badly, but knowing he could've had all this if only Dad had raised them differently made him feel tired about it all.

That fact that he and Sam weren't even in America seemed miniscule in comparison.

.

Seeing not-Ruby, who was apparently Sam's wife, was definitely creepy. Like human Castiel, not-Ruby seemed to have lost all her intensity in this universe. Not to mention, she was into animal welfare. And not just so that she could do demonic rituals using their blood.

Though he had to say, the good thing about this Ruby was that you could happily stare down her dress without feeling guilty of perving on a demonic bitch.

"Er, Jensen," Sam said. "Jensen."

Not-Ruby crossed her arms. Her breasts looked even bigger at this angle. "Control your co-star, honestly, Jared. Ugh. Harry's upstairs, Jensen. In the usual bedroom. I'll be back later, okay Sam?"

"Okay. No problem. We'll just, you know, go say hi."

"He's sleeping. I sent you an update on Facebook about it."

Apparently, everyone knew more about technology than Dean here.

Not-Ruby gave Sam a kiss, while Dean pretended his first impulse wasn't to tear her away from her. After not-Ruby and not-Ruby's amazing legs left through the front door, Dean turned to Sam. "_Ruby?_ Really?"

"_Harry?_ Really?" Sam mimicked. He didn't have a point at all, Dean decided.

Then he gulped. "How much of a chance do I have of avoiding this?"

Sam rolled his eyes as they headed upstairs. "Dean, he's sleeping. What's he going to do, molest you in his sleep? It's not like you've never shared a bed." At Dean's righteous expression, he added, "Just sleep on the couch or something."

Dean decided Sam didn't understand the enormity of the situation. He, on the other hand, did not understand the gaudiness of not-Sam's house. Because it wasn't a house: it was a showcase for bad art and photos of Sam.

"Dude, is this really how you'd decorate your house?"

Sam snorted. "No, I'd have a good sculpture of myself in the front lawn, too. So that people would know my house from the other look-alikes." He rolled his eyes. "Of course not, Dean. Look it's obvious that Jensen and Jared are completely different people compared to us."

Of course they were, and not just because they had bad taste in spouses and art.

The next door to their left opened suddenly, a messy head poking out. "Jensen! I didn't think you'd visit. Hey Jared. Are you guys really walking together without glaring or is it just my jet lag talking?"

The guy, who Dean assumed was Harry Potter, opened the door fully. At first glance, he wasn't much to look at. Glasses, shaggy hair, a nose that had been broken at least twice, and huge black bruises under his eyes. He wore a huge hockey shirt and boxers.

"Harry," Dean managed, glancing at Sam. He hadn't been hit with latent gayness at first glance. Good to know. "How are you?"

"Completely knackered," Harry answered through a yawn. "I was just going to go back to bed, but I heard your voices and had to get you to join me. To prevent world war three, you know," he said with a wink at Sam. "Come on. Gwen has great pillows."

"I really don't think—"

"I can finish the rest by myself. That thing we talked about, I'll get it. And wake you up tomorrow morning," Sam, the traitor, said, giving Dean a nudge. "See you tomorrow."

Dean was going to kill him. This was not how he'd planned to spend the night.

He stepped inside the room, carefully edging around Harry, who still stood in the doorway, staring into space. He looked like he'd fallen asleep right there.

"Need a hand?" Dean asked, awkwardly stopping inside the room.

Harry blinked a few times and shook his head. "M'fine. I'll just go to bed now."

Despite himself, Dean snorted. "You do that."

Harry flipped him the bird as he fell down onto the bed.

It took him a few moments of wrestling with himself, but Dean finally stripped down to his boxers and got into bed beside the other man. He wouldn't be able to sleep well fully clothed, anyway, no matter how much he'd rather do that. His body, the faithless thing, seemed to relax instantly on the bed, and Harry wrapped himself around him in moments. After a year of sleeping with Lisa, having a body next to his again didn't feel as weird as it should have, given that it was male.

"Missed you. Came back on the first flight. Won the game," Harry mumbled against his skin, kissing his cheek sloppily.

"Ah, good," Dean said, and stared up at the ceiling, prepared to count sheep. Or shoot Sams as they jumped across fences.

He didn't notice himself falling asleep.

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The next part is about a quarter written, so hopefully it will be up soon. But you should still totally **review** this chapter, because it makes me squee and want to write ten times faster. I really want to hear your thoughts!


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